Annon
by Vanimalion
Summary: A dark secret hidden in Nandorin culture provides the gate to happiness for a long broken family. Wanderers are brought home, wounds are healed, and joy is finally reached in death. A short, sweet, and sad little tale of ghosts, grief, and healing. WARNING: Character death.
1. Annon

1There is a mountain in northern Mirkwood that has been standing since the beginning of time. While once its peak spilled fumes of steam and ash, now the mountain is quiet. It is rugged and tough, a lone island in a sea of trees. There is a stair leading up its side, small and winding and steep, carved into the stone many years ago. It is called the Watching Stair. The steps are adorned with eyes, hundreds of thousands of pairs of eyes, hewn into the cold, hard rock. They stare at the few travelers of the path, threatening and perilous, a warning to all who wander unaware. They are the eyes of the dead, carved by those who knew them well in life.

At the top of the mountain there is a sacred basin known as Annon, the Gate, and there the carved eyes stop. No stone orbs peer into the silent glade within, for there can be no witnesses but the moon and the stars and the eyes of the Valar.

For there, in the night, death dances.

The steep walls are carved with trees and flowers and woodland animals, but not a single eye is to be seen. The animals turn their faces and avert their gazes in respect for the dead, creeping within the stone trees with blindfolds of leaves and bark. Never do they remove them. For this is the place where elves are sent to Mandos, and here the lost souls of sinners and spies and criminals come to play, dancing under the twilight sky. And yet, in the times of Anor's reign, the living also come. The Silvan elves of the wood burn their deceased in the carved tomb of the mountain's solitary eye, laying the abandoned bodies on a stone table in the center of the clearing and setting a fire to the place that safeguards the road to the Houses of the Dead, for they believe that the body must be destroyed for the soul to truly be free. The elves do not watch, they do not see, but they know, for once again the mountain smokes as if in life.

The Silvan elves believe that life must come from death, and so after the fire has burned down and the fëa has fled away, the Spirit Hunters return to the mountain and collect the ash of their kin. They put it into their open palms and stand at the very edge of the mountain, chanting prayers to Elbereth and Oromë, letting the breath of Manwë pick up the small offerings and carry them into the trees, fertilizing the ground with the life of the deceased.

When first the Sindar came over the mountains into Rhovanion, they were ignorant of the power of the mountain. Only when their forces retreated to its walls did they find the Gate and were educated of its importance by the watchful Tawarwaith.

After that time, it was used as it had been for years uncountable, ferrying the dead to safety, until one day King Thranduil lost his wife, and for the first time, one of the living ventured into Annon at night. Stricken with grief, the king climbed the Watching Stair at dusk and laid himself upon the stone table, for he could feel the presence of his lost love, and he took comfort in the residual warmth of her soul. As the stars began to show their tiny silver faces, so did other things. The Lost appeared, argent and shimmering, beautiful in death. And as the light of Arien's vessel faded, so the light of the Lost grew in strength. And then Eretel stepped forward and reached out a hand to her husband, and he took it, and she led him into the Realm of Spirits, and his body was left behind, cold and lifeless upon the sacred table.

All night did they dance, frolicking around a funeral pyre of freezing blue flames, and the carved animals appeared to move, shrinking away from the light of the spirits and their cold fires. When dawn came and the stars began to fade, Eretel lead Thranduil back to the stone table, and after a soft kiss, she pressed his freed soul back into his waiting body and faded away. The king breathed again, his heart began to beat anew, and he stood up and walked down the mountain to return to his duties.

He came often again to Annon, dancing with death, for there he could be with those who had chosen to remain in Middle-Earth as wanderers. It was a warm feeling, to see those who were dead, but it was also cold, for the nights spent felt like fleeting moments, the thrill and freedom of the Spirit Realm making the world of the living seem dull and constricting. Walking is not so easy when one has learned how to fly.

And though it brought him great sorrow, the King continued to visit the dead in secret, stealing away in the night to fly with those who are lost.


	2. Annon Part Two: Reunited

This piece – second chapter specifically - is dedicated to MyselfOnly, for getting me back up and working with this story and concept again.

A great big thanks to both MyselfOnly and Lindir's Ghost for all their great help and advice

- Annon Part Two: Reunited -

I died on the 15th of March in the year 3019 of the Third Age, on Pelennor fields, at noon, when the sun was high and all the world was bright and clear.

- X -

It was a simple thing, really. My death, though rather grand in the whole, was not extremely heroic. I did not die saving a dear friend. I was not slowly tortured to my limit. There was no sad goodbye in the arms of a comrade. I suppose I can say I stayed strong to the end, but the end was short, so that is not saying much. I think I knew it was coming, really. In my heart of hearts, I knew that this would be my last, and when the end finally came, I was not afraid. Well, yes, I was, but not of death itself. There was a peace to it, a conclusion. I would be going to rest in the Halls, and there I would be safe, and nothing could ever hurt me. It is a nice thought for someone raised on the field of war. Gone. I would be gone, and that was perfectly fine with me.

The arrow came from one of the Haradrim. They did not appreciate my efficient assassination of their great beast, so they killed me before I had a chance to finish my skillfully planned slide down the trunk of the falling oliphant. It hit me in the hip, my leg gave way, I slipped, and my body toppled off the creature's head to be caught by the eagerly waiting spikes upon one long tusk of the dying monster. There was a moment of blinding pain as the sharp point crashed into my chest, but then it was gone, and so was I. The whole scene was comical, really. True, it was death, but as I think back upon it, that unlucky stroke of fate was the kind of thing the enemy laughs about over a mug of ale. An elf, shot off an oliphant and impaled upon its tusk. It is actually rather humiliating.

I was rudely shoved from my body by that spike that fit so neatly within me, spreading bone and flesh like a knife through butter. It was a shock to me at first, being a disembodied soul, but I have become accustomed to it. It is such a refreshingly basic form of existence, such a wonder, such great freedom. I must admit, I rather like being dead.

I turned to look at the body I had just vacated. The tusk was red with my blood, and more dripped from the hole in my chest as I hung there, limp, like a rag doll. The look upon Gimli's face tore at me, the pain overwhelming.

I feel emotions far more intensely since I have lost my body.

At that moment, there was nothing to distract me from the pain I had unknowingly caused him, and no comfort I could offer. I wanted to tell him that I was all right, truly, it was just my body that was gone. My spirit was fine, there wasn't anything wrong with it. Did that not make all the difference? Did that not not mean I was still alive?

_I am still here, Mellon Nin. Do not give up on me, please. _

But he did give up. Or rather, he grieved, and then he moved on. The dwarves are a hearty folk, and as much as it hurts, I am glad he no longer thinks of me. We were always meant to part in the end, but it was naturally assumed that he would be the one that left, not I. I think it is better this way, though I grieve that we never truly got to know each other. There are so many things that we never got to do, he and I.

I always thought that my soul would rush to Namo's safe keeping, but now that the time has come, I stay behind. It was for Gimli and Aragorn at first. I stayed in Minas Tirith as my friends grieved and slowly healed, and then after as Aragorn's kingdom began to flourish. Someday, I will leave. I do not wish to see them fade away and die. To me, they will remain the same loving, living friends I was forced to leave behind. When I leave the city, I will never return. I will never visit their graves. It is easier this way, to ignore the truth.

I saw Eldarion born, and I saw Gimli leave for Aglarond. That stung in a way I did not foresee. I was supposed to go to Aglarond with him, but now he goes alone. I wonder if he will think of me on his way. Will he wonder what might have happened had that fateful arrow never flown? I think back upon it every now and again. I would have liked it, truly. I would have gone there with him, shared his passion, and attempted to see the beauty in those caves. I'll admit, I never had much hope for success in that endeavor, but I would have tried... for him.

But that is gone now. All of it. Or rather, I am gone from it. The truth is, the world has gone on without me. I often contemplate leaving Middle Earth, but I hesitate, excitement and terror pulling me in and pushing me away as relentlessly as the tides. I want to go with all my being, and yet I cannot get myself to do it. It is fear that keeps me here, but fear of what, I know not. The unknown, perhaps, or just the idea of leaving behind all that I have ever lived for. Regardless of my lack of understanding of my own thoughts, one fact remains certain: There is no going back from that journey, no return. It is an intimidating concept, and one I am not yet ready to face. Wait. I will wait, and I will wander. In peace. In solitude. Alone.

- X -

It took me a few years to finally leave the city, but I am glad that I did. I went many places and saw many people, and some eased my lonely existence. There are men and women wandering the streets who can hear me. They are the mutterers, the beggars, and those known as madmen. They can hear me as I sing my sad songs. They look up and stare at me, and then they call out. I do not know if they can see me, but even if they cannot, they know I am here, and they know exactly where I am. It never occurred to me that these people were not mad, but instead just speaking to spirits. Now that I know this, I seek them out. I never fully appreciated the community and simple presence and acknowledgment of other intelligent life, but now that it has been taken away, I pine for it, however lowly the company.

I long for friendship. I long for what I have lost. I know I will find such things when I finally answer the call and go to Namo's keeping, and yet I linger. For a long time I knew not what held me back, what force kept me tied to the mortal world. But now I think I do. I must go home, and I must go through the Gate. Annon. It must ferry me home.

It is odd, really, that we were all wrong in the end. I did not follow my body, not wishing to see it rot before me on its way to northern Mirkwood. I did not want to see my father's face when he saw my lifeless corpse. I did not wish to see the hot flames lick up my skin, nor the Spirit Hunters carrying my ashes into the wind. But I know they did. I know my hroa is gone forever, and yet I remain, when I was supposed to be guaranteed immediate passage to Mandos. Perhaps it is all a matter of will, and I never wanted to leave.

But now I must go. I know I must. That is the way, I feel it.

It is time to leave, time to say my final goodbyes and fly into the safety of Mandos. My father first... I must see my father one more time. And Araglos, my wonderful nephew. It is of the utmost importance, for me, that I see them again. My brother, too, though there was little love lost between us. Perhaps he is the only one I will not miss. I resolved to try and love him as I should, but I never got the time to try. Perhaps he will be grieving for me, and we will actually connect for the first time. Well, I will connect with him, and he will feel nothing. I must remember that I am dead. He has said before that I am dead to him, and not wholly out of jest. I hope, now that my end has come, he will one day feel my absence in his heart, and come to realize what we could have had. It may be the closest to friendship we will ever come.

My trip home is easy. Travel as a soul is a simple thing. I fly like the wind, with great speed. The power of the forest is even clearer to me now than it was when I was in my body. I know at once that my connection with the Greenwood is not simply because it is my home, but rather because the forest as a whole has such presence, such power. It is a haven of strength and majesty, and as I approach, I know why.

Everywhere. They are everywhere, within the trees, wandering the paths, singing, dancing, speaking. This is a place of the dead, a land of the homeless wanderers. This is a forest of souls. We are many, and yet we are one, all journeying to the same spot, the same deliverance. Our common salvation. Annon.

I sense it. I feel it pull me, and I am too tired to resist. As I glide up the Watching Stare, the eyes follow me, and they blink. As I reach the peak, I see my own. The top. Right where a prince's should be. We stare at each other for a few minutes, and then - as the sun slips away - I go down into the basin.

As I descend, my soul, which has been like a cloud, begins to reform into the shape of my old body, and I feel again: the sensation of stone on my feet, the pull of Arda upon me, a breeze within my hair. I am almost alive. It is infectious. I do not want to go, I do not want to leave this... this feeling; this memory of what I had, what I could do, so real it almost seems re-birth, a second chance, a gift. Perhaps if I walk back out, I will stay like this, and maybe they will see me, maybe I will be able to speak, see, feel. I can be loved not only as a memory. Perhaps I will be able to see Gimli and Aragorn again. It is growing dark, perhaps they will see my light, my soul. I would stay for this, stay for a chance to live again. Maybe, just maybe... do I dare hope?

I turn to leave, my feet landing silently in the soft ash upon the floor. And as I lift my head to look before me, I see my father.

Living. He is alive, but only just. The mountain feels his weight as he picks his way down the stairs, but his soul has darkened. There is no finery today, no gold or jewels. He seems an average elf. Valar, he looks terrible. I must remind myself that he is not dead yet, just in the process of dying. He looks hopeless, lost. Fading. Was it I who did this to him? My death? It must have been. _Ai, Ada, I am so sorry. _

I watch as he lies upon the stone table in the center of the basin. This is new to me. As far as I know, that monstrous slab of granite is only used for burning our dead. Apparently not. I see him close his eyes. His chest grows still, his breathing stopped. And yet his light does not diminish. It simply moves. He splits in two, his body lying on the stone as his spirit sits up and looks around. Dead. He is dead. He has come into the spirit world. He does not see me at first. He is captivated by an elleth on the other side, by the wall. I had not noticed her. He walks over and embraces her. She looks familiar for some reason, as if stirring some long lost memory...

I move closer to see her more clearly...

"Nana?"

My adar whips around at the sound of my voice, the elleth looking up at me, and I know it is true. These are my parents.

Ada looks at me for a second in disbelief, his head slightly tilted as if he cannot quite believe I am here. He stretches out a hand, but it does not quite reach me.

"Lassë?"

But he does not need me to answer. He knows, and when I nod anyway, we just embrace, like we have every time I come home from a long adventure. Only in the past, it has not been quite this extreme. Odd, then, that it feels the same. But I suppose, truly, it is. He is seeing me for yet another day, and that is something to celebrate, no matter what the circumstances.

"I have been waiting for you." He says after a while, his voice quiet, his gaze unblinking. "I have come every day since I learned you were gone, hoping you would be here, and here you are." He smiles almost dazedly, as if he still cannot believe I have actually come.

He is weak. The grieving sickness has dulled his light, chilled his soul. He is brittle and cracking, trying his best to love me the way he should. Yet there is so little light left for him to give, so little left at all, that he can barely give me a drop for my return, and even that is a struggle. I must help him to be well again in the times to come. I must help him feel again. I must help him love.

"Thirty years I have waited... thirty." He pauses and looks me over, his eyes lingering on the spot where I was impaled, now clean and fresh and perfect, my body no longer ruined so horribly as it must have been upon my return home to be burned in Annon.

"Did it... hurt?" He asks cautiously.

"No, not much, and not for long." I smile weakly in an attempt to reassure him that my suffering was minimal.

He looks up. "Good... I will never let such a thing happen again. I would see you happy and hale for ever more."

And then he steps aside, a broad smile coming across his silver lips in anticipation of this monumental reunion, and I see my mother for the first time in over three thousand years. I had forgotten her face, but now that I see her again, I know her. We have the same eyes, the same ears, the same hair. Memories of our short time together come flowing back, memories of laughter, and of light, and of joy. No words are shared between us, as none are needed. There is naught one can say. Naught one can do in such a situation. All that is needed and can be achieved is the touching of souls, the complete, sound knowledge that the other is there, that you are known, and that you are loved. Always loved, to the end of days and beyond the breaking of the world. Such is the power of a mother's love, and such is it felt, soul to soul. Such is it known and shared in all its raw, heartbreaking beauty.

_I will never let you go._

_I will never again abandon you. _

_I will never see you hurt._

_I will always love you._

_Always. _

And then it is time. Time to sing and to feel and to be. To revel in the life and purity of this state of wandering. It is time to be happy, it is time to love, it is time to know that we are well, that we are together. It is time to go, it is time to fly.

And we do. My mother and father and I fly through the forest, and the other spirits come alive in a great fest, singing and dancing and reveling in their freedom. The songs of the trees are loud and strong, and we feel the life within them reaching out to us, drawing us in. It is a joy in itself just to be with my family again. Something beautiful. A stroke of luck that brought us together one last time, and I am determined not to squander it. We do not speak, my parents and I. Speaking is not needed. Instead, we feel. We feel everything. Souls cannot hide, and therefore there is nothing to tell. We feel each others' joy and pain simply by being near them. It is an easy, simple, sincere method of communication, far preferable to the laborious acts of speech.

Our love for this togetherness is great, but our time is short, and before I know it, the black of night begins to fade to the grey of dawn, and the lost and wandering souls quiet their voices and still their dancing. We must return, Nana says, before the sun rises and Ada is locked in the spirit world forever. And yet, when we do return, nothing happens. We all simply stand, looking upon his lifeless body. Waiting.

"Do you want it?" Ada says after a while.

"Your body?" I ask, just to be sure. It is not a common gift, a body.

"Yes." He does not look at me, but instead upon his own face, peaceful and still. "You can take it. Live again. Be king."

"No, I cannot." He knows this. We all do. "I cannot be king. My place is here now, I must go to Mandos' keeping."

There is another pause. The sky is getting brighter.

"Would Elethas be a good king for what is left of this blighted realm?" he sounds hopeful, almost happy.

"I suppose. He is an arse, but he would rule well."

"Don not call your brother an arse." Ada scolds half-heartedly.

"I am sorry Ada, but you always told me not to lie." I say with a small smirk. He does not respond, but I can see his lips twitching in the beginnings of a smile. He knows it is true.

"He will be fine. And he has Araglos. The realm is in good hands."

He's coming with me, I know it.

He looks up at the sky as it begins to turn from purple to pink.

"You know... I have always wanted to visit the sea," he says with finality, a smile upon his silvery lips.

He turns, Nana and I follow, and the three of us walk out, our forms fading to mist as we leave his body behind. And as the sun's first rays solidify my father's choice of death over life, none of us look back.

There's something fresh about me now. Something that was broken is now fixed. There is nothing left for me here, nothing I need to do. I will leave without guilt or regrets. My unfinished business is no longer an issue. The farewells that were never said no longer a source of grief. I will depart more whole than I have been for centuries, and there is such joy to that, I cannot help but let it show. They must feel me as I pass, the living. They must sense my joy, so overwhelmingly powerful as it is. Let them. I hope they all feel as I do. For I am answering Mandos' call with those that are dear to me, and nothing can stop us.


End file.
